


Bloodkin

by silver_eagle



Series: Rebirth of the Riders [1]
Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Gen, Yes this is the same fic from that other site
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22573528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_eagle/pseuds/silver_eagle
Summary: After discovering strange stones deep in the mountains, three farmboys are thrust into a journey beyond their imagination, accompanied by the village storyteller, a butcher's daughter, a girl from the far south, and an elf who's quite unlike the stories.
Series: Rebirth of the Riders [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624201
Comments: 95
Kudos: 49





	1. Hunters and Prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fateful night heralds the beginning of a journey.

**The Three Hunters**

Tales of epic adventures often began on dark, stormy nights. Truth, however, often differed from fiction.

The day everything started, winter was creeping close on the fringes of Du Weldenvarden. There was no sign of rain or frost, however. The twilight sky - however little of it can be seen through the trees - was clear, and there’s not a breath of wind.

Three elves mounted upon noble white steeds traversed the sparse woodland trail. They moved swiftly and silently, their canted eyes shifting everywhere as if anticipating an attack.

Their leader - a dark-haired male - raised his hand to stop his companions briefly. His ears seemed to twitch as he paused. Like his companions, he wore no armor over his russet tunic. He was, however, equipped with a slender bow and a quiver full of arrows. His free hand clutched a large pack perched on his lap, as if afraid that something might happen to its contents.

The one to his left lowered his graceful spear, preparing to attack at any moment. This elf had silver hair, gleaming like starlight even in the dark. He wore a helm of amber and gold whose visor was raised to reveal his angular features and distrustful blue eyes.

The third elf was much younger than her companions - in fact, she seemed no older than fifteen or sixteen. Like the first elf, she had long raven hair and wide green eyes. Clad in a rumpled emerald tunic, she was armed only with a slender sword and a mutinous look upon her face. She also carries her own pack, smaller but sturdy.

“Letta, Arya,” their leader warns her.

She stops, but the scowl remains.

The wind shifts, and with it comes the scent of beings that should not be in this forest. The elves freeze and exchange glances. With a unified nods, they urge their steeds to turn the other way and flee.

* * *

Eragon narrowed his eyes as he kneeled beside his prey’s tracks. He was sure that the herd of deer was here recently, and he still had time to catch up to them before having to rejoin his companions. Night was approaching fast, and his prey would be settling down to sleep soon.

It’s an ideal night for hunting. Though the air was cold, the sky was clear, and there were no signs of impending rain. The mountains towered protectively over him in all directions, but they weren’t enough to hide a good portion of the dusky sky. Nearby, a number of streams bubbled and flowed - an advantage for hunters who often just had to wait for animals to come down for a drink.

At fifteen and a few months short of finally reaching the age of manhood, Eragon was one of the best hunters from Carvahall. Taller than most of his peers, he was slender and athletic too, his body honed by years of working in their family’s farm. Like most people from Carvahall, his hair was a dark shade of brown, but his eyes were a bright, startling blue.

Having left his pack in the campsite, he’s only equipped with his bow protected by its buckskin tube, a half-full quiver of arrows, and a bone-handle knife. A worn-out waterskin hung from his belt.

He and his companions were among the brave few who dared venture out of Carvahall to hunt in the Spine - a massive mountain range that bordered the western fringes of Alagaesia. Most townspeople believed in the tales of horror and magic surrounded the place. It didn’t help that rumors of the Forsworn being sighted in the southern parts of the Spine persisted.

Though a small part of Eragon believed these tales, he knew he had no choice. Hunting game deep in the Spine was the only way for their family to survive.

It was a good time for hunting. He and his companions have already felled a number of bucks during their three-day trek. They had more than enough to last them through winter, but Eragon believed that one more wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe they could sell the meat for a few coins.

* * *

The fleeing elves didn’t make it far. Red lights erupted as they rode through the dark woods, and their silver-haired ally fell. The dark-haired male cried out in his native tongue as he and his surviving companion rode past towering trees.

With another flash of light, a red-haired Shade emerged from the darkness, accompanied by a band of tall, horned Urgals which began to give chase. With another cry, the elf lord knocked an arrow and shot one of the Urgals in the eye as they sped past.

“Get him!” the Shade snarled. “He is the one I want.”

The Urgals began firing their own arrows - black, twisted thorns whose tips glistened with poison.

The elf girl, who had already managed to outpace her companion, stopped. She turned with an outstretched hand. “Letta orya thorna!”

The arrows fell, as if blocked by an unseen force, but the chase went on. The Urgals and the Shade began to gain on their prey.

“Ganga,” the elf lord cried out.

The Shade’s mangled lips curled up in a smile as he closed the distance. “Boetq istalri,” he cried out over and over again, until a circle of fire formed around him, half a league in size.

The elves were trapped.

Shouts followed a blast of light to the east. The Shade headed toward it to find his prey trapped between the Urgals and a wall of trees, their slaughtered steeds lying a small distance away. The elf lord remained calm, murmuring words of power under his breath. He clutched his pack tightly. His companion, meanwhile, held her sword aloft, a look of disdain on her face.

“We’ll have none of that,” the Shade snarled. He raised his hand to counter with his own word of power.

A bolt of red lightning flew out of his hand, striking the elf as a flash of green light erupted from his palm. The contents of his pack vanished with a loud explosion, causing the Urgals and even the Shade to stagger.

“Jierda!” the female elf shrieked amidst the confusion, breaking the Urgal’s calves as she bounded into the night.

* * *

Now in a glen, Eragon prowled by the shadows to conceal himself. He could hear water flowing nearby. Calming himself with the sound, he slowly crept on until he found the deer settling in for the night on a grassy clearing. Spotting a plump doe at the edge of the herd, he quietly nocked an arrow and took aim.

He was about to shoot when a loud explosion rang out. Alarmed, the entire herd bolted away, forcing Eragon to give chase. Ignoring the searing wind, the hunter sprinted, attempting to fire an arrow. A quiet curse escaped his lips as he missed.

The deer fled, leaving an angry, disappointed Eragon. He turned around, looking for the source of the explosion instead, and froze.

A large, charred circle now dominated the area. There was nothing but burnt grass, blown-up trees, and scorched earth save for the center of the circle. Four stones at least a foot long lay in the center, all of them having different colors - brilliant blue, vibrant red, rich violet, and shining silver.

Eragon scuttled forward, wary of an attack. With none forthcoming, he approached the stones and poked the blue one with an arrow. He then picks it up, observing it in awe. The shade was a brighter blue than his eyes, with thin white veins running down its surface. He gently touched the warm, smooth surface, noting that nature couldn’t have polished something like this.

After a moment’s hesitation, he also picked the other three stones. He might as well bring something interesting back to the camp. Besides, they might sell for good money.

Though he knew his way around the area, he couldn’t help but glance at the stars every now and then. The night’s darkness felt more sinister since the stones appeared, and he knew that he wouldn’t feel better until he had some company.

Time passes as he stumbled through the thickets and crosses a couple of streams, guided by nothing but the moon and the stars.

A cheery fire was already burning by the time he made it to the camp. His twin brother, Murtagh, and their cousin Roran were huddled beside it, murmuring quietly to each other. They nevertheless glanced up with expectant looks on their faces as he crept closer.

“What have you brought with you today, oh mighty hunter?” Murtagh asksed.

Though they were not identical, the twins closely resembled each other with their lean yet sturdy builds and dark auburn hair. While Eragon had blue eyes, however, Murtagh’s are a mahogany brown shade that almost looks red in the firelight.

“Seems like he’s empty-handed.” Roran’s violet eyes observed Eragon curiously.

Though he is just a handful of months older than the twins, he resembled them closely enough to be mistaken as their older brother. He’s stockier, though, and his auburn hair was lighter.

“No meat, but I believe I found something _more valuable_.” Eragon sat between his two companions and set down his pack, hesitating.

“What’s that?” A frown creased Roran’s brow.

With a deep breath, Eragon revealed the four stones. “They just appeared when I was out hunting.”

Murtagh reached out to touch the surface of the red stone. “It’s magic. Must be. Was that the explosion we heard?”

“Aye. It startled the deer, too.”

Roran’s face turned grim as he peered at Eragon. “I wanted to investigate, but Murtagh here talked me against it.”

Beside his twin, Murtagh rolled his eyes. “You know he won’t be pleased if he returned to an empty camp. Besides, I was _sure_ that my brother is well.”

“And I was,” Eragon agreed. “I really didn’t know exactly what happened. Do you think I was meant to have these?”

There’s a brief moment of silence as Roran stoked the flames.

“The Spine has always been home to strange and dangerous things,” he finally whispered. “It’s difficult to tell if they appeared to you on purpose or if it is nothing but chance.”

“So what do we do with them?”

“Sell them.” Murtagh shrugged. “It doesn’t matter if they came from the Spine, these stones are clearly _valuable_.”

Roran nodded along, though there was still a look of uncertainty on his face. “They’ll surely fetch a price, but what if the owner is searching for them now?”

A quiet hush followed his words.

Eragon frowned, scrambling for answers as his brother and cousins exchanged glances. “No one can tell, for sure. But we have the stones now and we might as well make something out of them.”

Roran nodded slowly, though he didn’t seem completely convinced. “Very well.”

Murtagh gazed at the sky, a grim look on his face. “It is getting late now, though,” he muses. “We must sleep soon, if we’re to leave early tomorrow.”

The other two murmured their consent. Together, the three boys prepared their rough blankets and put out the fire. Tonight, they must rest. Tomorrow is another day - they’ll deal with the mystery of the stones then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, yes, you might recognize this fic from that other fanfic site. It took me a while to get things going, but I hope I get to complete the rewrite and post everything here within the year. Please do say hello if you still remember my works!


	2. There's No Place Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the three hunters go home, and someone's choice is about to affect another person's destiny

The morning was warm - pleasantly so - and the sky had a glorious mix of pink and gold, adorned only by wispy clouds. Chirping birds could be heard from a distance, clearly unbothered by everything that transpired the night before.

On an idle day, Eragon would have been content to sleep in. He couldn’t tarry this time, however, for he and his companions had to begin their trek back home.

After a short, simple meal of bread and cheese, the three boys broke their camp and extinguished the last of the smoldering fire. They split the four stones between them, with Eragon securing the blue stone in his pack. Murtagh, meanwhile, took the red stone, and Roran as the eldest kept both the violet and silver ones.

With one final nod to each other, the three set off along the well-worn game trail - the fastest way home.

The wild mountains of the Spine had its own fair share of twisted tales of strange creatures that prowl the land - Urgals and man-beasts and creatures of shadow alike. Though not a year went by without rumors of the six Forsworn and their dragons in the area, it was still widely believed that the Spine were among the last places in the realm that the Empire had truly not claimed. It was even said that half the king’s army disappeared during an attempt to conquer the mountains.

To no one’s surprise, most people living in Palancar Valley feared the Spine too. Many of those who ventured forth have met nasty accidents, after all. Scarcely seven years had passed since the butcher’s wife herself had fallen to her death while searching for herbs.

Eragon, Murtagh, and Roran were one of the few that did not fear the tales. They have been hunting in the Spine since they were thirteen, and their constant vigilance ensured that no harm would befall them.

Their home, Carvahall, was two and a half days’ worth of hard traveling away from their camp. They spent their first night by the Anora River, the cool and crisp water flowing steadily toward Palancar Valley.  _ Home _ . Here, the boys refilled their waterskins and washed the day’s grime off their hands and faces.

Nothing of importance transpired on the second day, to their relief.

By the third day, the Igualda Falls - the northernmost point of Palancar Valley - came into view after a short trek past some cliffs. The trail had become moist and slippery, but the three boys were already used to it.

Roran gazed at the thundering falls with a look of awe and fear in his eyes. “If the tales are true and Ismira fell to her death there…” he shuddered. “It is a terrible fate.”

Murtagh frowned as he eyed the falls too. “It  _ must _ be true. Sloan fears the Spine more than everyone else in the village. Besides, the Igualda Falls has taken too many lives.”

“A shame that it is still the best place to forage for herbs,” Eragon mused.

They eventually moved on, hefting their packs as they trudged up the rest of the trail. Soon, the rest of Palancar Valley lay before them, bright and sharp against the light of the early afternoon sun. Carvahall was nearby, a haze of smoke curling from the village homes’ chimneys. Patches of farmlands could be spotted farther along, the farmers themselves nothing but shadowy smudges.

Beside them, the Anora River ran south to the other side of the valley where Therinsford - the only other settlement in the area - stood tall and proud. Beyond Therinsford was the lone mountain, Utgard.

By dusk, they finally made it down the last leg of the trail. Carvahall now lay before them - a quiet village with buildings made of sturdy logs. While most of these structures had low, thatched roofs, a few newer ones were shingled.

A few of the folk chatting on their wide porches wave at the boys as they pass. Being so small, the village housed a close-knit community where everyone knew each other. Almost everyone shared the same brown hair and dark eyes, which made the three boys’ auburn locks and vivid eyes stand out - and not always in a pleasant manner.

“Murtagh!” Horst, the blacksmith, called out as they passed by him in the process of closing down his workshop for the night. An iron key ring in hand and soot falling off his apron, he approached the three boys with a wide smile. “Welcome back. I hope you can spare a moment to talk.”

After sparing his companions a brief glance, Murtagh nods to the smith. “I hope it won’t take too long. We do have to get back before Uncle Garrow sheds more hair with worry.”

Horst inclined his head in acknowledgement, his black beard shifting as he smiled. “Of course. It is always good to see you back safely, but no one would feel so more than the old worrywart himself.”

Putting his hand on Murtagh’s shoulder, he steered the boy to the workshop’s porch, leaving Eragon and Roran alone. In the distance, the two caught a glimpse of curly copper hair flying freely with the early evening breeze.

“Do you mind waiting?” Roran asked. “I need to talk to Katrina.”

“It seems I have no choice,” Eragon replied with a groan. “Go on, then.”

He watched his cousin run off without further ado, a bemused smile on her face. No one can fault Roran for being smitten with the butcher’s dearest daughter. Other boys in town spoke admiringly of Katrina’s lovely long hair, porcelain skin, pink lips, and stormy gray eyes.

Eragon watched his cousin approach Katrina and exchange a few words. That’s as far as they got, however, as the butcher, Sloan, emerged from his shop with a cleaver in hand. He headed straight for the pair, his dark eyes bulging in rage as he bore down upon them with a roaring yell.

“Get away from my daughter!”

Eragon felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle from the force of the man’s voice. His hand flew to his belt, where his hunting dagger hung, and wondered if he needed to intervene.

“Stop it!” Katrina yelled, standing between Roran and her father, her eyes flashing with rage.

“Step aside from the  _ scum _ if you know what’s good for you,” Sloan growled with another of his detestable sneers. “Step aside from him.”

“What did he ever do to you?”

“Enough!” The sound of a dull  _ thwack _ resounded in the sudden silence as the butcher slapped Katrina. “Do you not fear for yourself? Are you not worried about what he might do to you?”

“And what exactly is  _ that _ ?” Roran challenged.

“Now, now, there’s no need for raised voices.” Horst emerged from the slowly growing crowd, Murtagh trailing behind him.

Steeling himself, Eragon hurried to join them, grasping the hilt of his hunting knife. No one spoke as Sloan glared at both Horst and Roran. Katrina still hovered defiantly between them.

“Get out of the way, Horst,” the butcher growled.

“I’ll not have you causing a scandal at this hour,” Horst retorted, a placid smile still on his face. He turned to the others with a nod. “Go - all of you. I’m sure you have more important matters to tend to.”

Night had truly fallen by the time the children managed to extract themselves from the argument. After a fleeting glance at Roran, Katrina had scuttled back to the butcher’s shop, leaving the three boys to trudge along by themselves.

“What did Horst want with you?” Eragon asked his brother as soon as they were out of the smith’s earshot.

Murtagh shrugged. “Remember when he asked Uncle if I can help in his forge this spring because his sons are heading for Therinsford?”

“Ah, that. Did you accept?”

“No, not unless Uncle gives the permission.”

“I doubt he will,” Roran mused. “We’re busiest in spring.”

Soon, they left the warmth of the village behind. The road led them through a cluster of elms where birds chirped among the branches. They wound their way through a hill until the lights of home glittered in the distance. The sight was enough to make the boys visibly relax for the first time since they left for the Spine.

Like the houses in Carvahall, smoke curled welcomingly from the short, stumpy chimney that jutted out of the shingled roof. An assortment of farm tools were lined against the edge of the porch, while a neat stack of firewood stood in a nearby corner.

It had been their home since they were eight, having left the village proper shortly after Garrow’s wife, Marian, died. Before that, the house had been abandoned for as long as anyone can remember, and it took a year of repair before it was deemed decently liveable by Garrow. Being ten miles away from the nearest house, most of the villagers did not approve of his decision to move his family here, as it would be difficult to seek help in case of an emergency. Stubbornly, Garrow refused to heed their warnings and so he and the boys lived here since then.

The three headed across the field, their banter falling into a comfortable silence as they drew closer to their home. Muffled sounds can be heard inside a nearby barn, where the horses Birka and Brugh lived with five chickens and a cow. They didn’t raise a pig this year - there wasn’t enough coin for even the cheapest one.

Making their way to the porch, they spot a flicker of movement by a window. A tired smile fills Roran’s face as he raises his hand to knock on the door.

“Father, it’s us.”

A small shutter briefly slid back before the door swung open. A tall, thin man stood by it, smiling at the three boys as he brushed wisps of graying hair away from his dark eyes. His clothes hung loose from his slender frame, looking more like rags than the garments that they were especially when he held his arms out in welcome.

“Welcome home. Come in, it’s cold out there,” he told them as he stepped aside from the door.

The boys marched through, the wooden floorboards creaking with every few steps they took. Nearby, a small door led to the rest of the house. A small lamp on a table provided light for the cramped main room. Beside this lamp, the boys set down the meat they’ve bagged from their hunt.

“We’ll have enough meat for the winter, Uncle,” Eragon proclaimed as he hung his bow and quiver on their hooks by the front door.

Garrow nodded. He had raised all three boys, and loved them all equally. Murtagh and Eragon were like sons to him now, and he knew that they saw him as their father, too. “Well done.”

Roran glanced at his cousins hesitantly. “Father, we came across some stones in the Spine that might be worth some coin too.”

“Stones from the Spine, you say?”

The boy nodded. Flashing a warning look at his cousins - one that told them not to comment on it - he brought out the violet stone, but not the silver ones. The twins follow suit, revealing the blue and red stones too. Eragon himself narrated how he came across the stones in the Spine, starting with the explosion in the clearing.

Despite their clearly magical nature, Garrow’s eyes had a hungry glint as he regarded the stones. “Keep those stones. We’ll see what the traders have to offer when they arrive. Tell me, how was the weather in the Spine?”

“A little cold,” Murtagh noted. “There’s no snow yet, but it might arrive soon. It’s getting chilly at night.”

Eragon nodded along. “The springs are getting too cold for comfort. It won’t be long.”

Garrow mulled over their words thoughtfully, stroking his scraggly beard as he regarded the boys. “That settles it, then. We’ll start harvesting the barley tomorrow, then the squash. That should get us through winter. Hold on to those stones - we’ll see what they’re worth once the traders arrive. The sooner we’re rid of them, the better. It’s best if we stay away from magic. For now, you must rest. We’ll have a long week ahead.”

After a meal of bread and hard cheese, the boys headed to the room they shared since childhood. Roran locked the door behind him as the twins leveled questioning stares at him. He set down his pack by his cot with a dull thump as he addressed them.

“It’s for Katrina.”

Eragon raised his brow. “Katrina?”

Roran sighed as he sat down, the cot creaking from his weight. “I promised her a gift when she celebrated her fifteenth year last summer. I was not able to give her one but I hope to remedy that.”

“So that’s why she hasn’t talked to you since then.” Murtagh chuckled quietly as he settled down, too.

Eragon wasn’t as amused as his twin. “Do you think it would be wise, though? These stones are  _ magic _ \- who knows what they might cause?”

“Once I give it to her, she can do as she wishes.” Roran bit his lip - he clearly wasn’t as confident in his decision as he pretended to be. “What matters is that I have fulfilled my promise to her.”

“Then on your own head be it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Got a bit busy at work recently but now that we're in quarantine I'll be able to update more frequently. Anyway, for those asking about the silver egg, here's the answer I hope you were looking for.


	3. As the World Turns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter arrives, and with it, unsettling news.

The faint rays of the early morning sun were already creeping through the room by the time Eragon awoke. Judging by the snores filling their cramped little space in the house, his brother and cousin were still asleep - not that Eragon minded. He appreciated the peaceful moment of bliss that comes before plunging straight into one of the busiest days of the year.

As he sat up, his eyes began to roam the comfortably familiar sight of their room. The four stones they had found were now sitting on the row of shelves that held other little treasures that the boys had picked up throughout the years. Of course, the rest paled in comparison to their newest discovery. Next to them, the odd bits of wood, bundled-up stalks of grass, smooth shells, and stones with shiny exteriors were  _ nothing  _ but inconsequential baubles.

Selling the stones would be such a shame.

Shaking off the last cobwebs of sleep from his mind, an odd feeling of sadness washed over Eragon. He knew what day it was - sixteen years to the day when his mother, Selena, had come home to Carvahall after disappearing for years. She had been alone and visibly pregnant when she showed up outside Garrow’s house, begging him to take her in. She needn’t have done it, of course, for her brother and his wife, Marian, had been quick to welcome her to his abode.

Her expensive clothes and the net of black pearls in her hair had surprised everyone. It was an ostentatious display of wealth that many of the villagers would have sneered at, after all.

She had given birth to the twins five months later, just a few weeks after Marian herself delivered Roran into the world. Garrow and Marian had been outraged when she tearfully begged them to raise her children, unable to answer their questions with anything but a desperate “I must.” Still, they eventually gave in to their pleas. The only thing she left for her sons were their names, which she had given them before she left the next day.

The abrupt and desperate nature of her departure birthed one question that neither Garrow nor Marian could answer - who were the twins’ father? Selena wasn’t married, and she had refused to give even just a name. No one had come looking for her or the children either. Whoever it was, perhaps he did not even know that he had sons.

The thought saddened Eragon. It would have been nice to know who had sired him, even if just by his name. Murtagh had been more dismissive and quick to judge, insisting that he would rather not think of someone who cared not for them.

Closing his eyes briefly, he recalled the day Aunt Marian herself had recounted the tale to the twins on what would soon become her deathbed. Though grateful for the loving upbringing, the truth had greatly upset the brothers, who had seen their aunt and uncle as their parents until that day. They still did, as a matter of fact, but the truth - and the possibility that Selena and their father might be alive - now hung over them like a shadow. Murtagh had comforted his brother with the thought that their mother must have had a good reason to leave them, but the painful possibility of not being good enough for Selena remained in the younger twin’s mind.

Lost in his thoughts, Eragon finally stood up and headed for the nightstand. The feeling of the solid pinewood floor beneath his feet coupled with cold water splashing against his face was enough to dispel the sad memories - at least for now.

“Good morning,” Murtagh croaked from his bed. “It feels strange, seeing you awake before me.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Eragon mumbled. “I was thinking of her.”

“Oh.  _ Her _ .” The mere thought of Selena darkened Murtagh’s mood - though it is just one of the many easy ways to do so.

“Do you think she’s well?”

“Does it matter?”

Shaking his head, Eragon had to quietly admit that his brother was right. There’s no use wasting his energy over this. Perhaps Selena might be dead, and if she lived, maybe she didn’t even spare a thought for her abandoned children. It was easy - too easy - to give in to anger, and it took all of Eragon’s willpower not to do so.

Wiping his face dry, he turned to his brother grimly. “You better wake Roran. We have a long day ahead.”

* * *

It was a busy day.

Under the gaze of the cold, watery sun, the three boys accompanied Garrow to the barley fields, gathering everything they could and storing it in the barn. Next were the prickly vined squashes, then the other crops that they then brought to the root cellar. Harvest was long and tedious, and the cold did nothing to alleviate their exhaustion. By the time they called it a day, everyone had  _ almost  _ been too tired to eat before passing out in their beds.

Though not as exhausting as the first, the next few days had been equally busy too. Preparing the food for the coming winter was as important as gathering it - there was no room for mistakes, lest they risked starving over the next turns of the moon.

* * *

A blizzard hit the valley nine days after the boys’ return. It was nothing like the snowstorms that they had encountered in the past years, blanketing the outside world in cold and eerie silence. Fearing the possibility of getting lost and freezing to death, no one dared venture out, save for the regular trek to the barn to feed the animals or collect firewood.

Time passed in a strange, disjointed manner. They spent most of the time huddled together by the old stove. Despite having closed the heavy window shutters, the cold seeped through, sending them shivering as the winds howled outside.

They had lost track of the days. No one was sure how much time had passed when the storm finally faded into oblivion. Outside, the world had turned white. No signs of life stirred among the snowy drifts.

Garrow shook his head despondently as he peered through the windows. “This does not bode well. With conditions this bad, the traders might not visit this year.”

“Then we’ll hold on to the stones until next winter, then,” Eragon told him as he looked up from his gruel.

That earned him Murtagh’s laughter. “Will we truly last a year with those stones? Magic is dangerous.”

“I know, but what else are we going to do?”

Roran tapped the table to get their attention. “You’re both right. We can’t just discard the stones - especially not if they’re truly as valuable as we think. They’re clearly made of magic too, though, and as Murtagh said,  _ that _ is dangerous.”

“So what do  _ you  _ think we should do?” The challenge in Murtagh’s words was not lost on his companions.

The answer, however, came from Garrow. “We - no,  _ you _ \- will keep those stones with caution. Observe them for any changes everyday, and do the same to your surroundings. The moment something unusual happens, tell me, and we shall discard them.”

His words were met with murmurs of approval from the boys. It was the most reasonable course of action, of course. Garrow had always been level-headed and practical, and  _ this  _ approach to the world almost never failed to yield favorable results for his family.

Roran eyed his father and cousins thoughtfully. “Still, we can’t discount the fact that the traders  _ might _ still come, right?”

“But of course.” Garrow’s smile didn’t quite meet his eyes, however. Maybe he did not put too much faith in his own words. “We cannot hope for it, however. They’re late as it is, and we can’t wait forever. We’ll have to purchase supplies from Carvahall instead if they don’t arrive soon.”

* * *

On the eighth day after the storm, Murtagh and Roran headed for the road to see if they could find any signs of the traders. They confirmed otherwise, however, to Garrow and Eragon’s disappointment. With heavy hearts, they prepare themselves for a trip to Carvahall instead, gathering everything that they can sell.

Desperate, Eragon checked the road himself during the idle time before dinner. Night hadn’t truly fallen yet, but the whiteness of snow transformed the landscape into an eerie mass of blank desolation. He was no stranger to such a sight after living through fifteen winters, and yet it never failed to plant the seeds of unease in the back of his mind. Perhaps it was the feeling of emptiness that came with it.

The melancholic thoughts did not last, to his relief, for he spotted something in the snow - deep ruts interspersed with hoofprints. The traders had finally arrived, late but nevertheless welcome.

The boys barely got any sleep that night, consumed with excitement for the following day. Festivities often accompanied the traders’ arrival, and not even the lack of coin can truly prevent them from partaking in the events.

Surplus produce from their bountiful year had already been loaded in two wagons by dawn. The three stones, wrapped in old cloth, had been placed between bags of grain to prevent them from falling off, while the fourth was carefully tucked inside Roran’s pack.

Garrow handed a few coins to the boys before securing the rest in the leather pouch hanging from his belt. “Be wise with your money,” he told them.

It didn’t take long before they left for Carvahall, the traders’ wagons cutting an easier path for their own. They ate a quick breakfast of dry bread as they headed along, their excitement preventing them from truly tasting their meal.

The village was brimming with life by the time they arrived. The sound of laughter and idle chatter can be heard even before they made it to the outskirts, where the traders had set up camp. An assortment of brightly-colored wagons, tents, and booths were scattered around the general area, the owners busy with all sorts of activities. In the middle of the camp, the troubadours garishly-dyed tents stood, their faded banners flying with the winter wind.

A crowd had already gathered here, while a steady stream of villagers also continued to arrive. Bonfires scattered throughout the camp kept everyone warm, while the smell of cooking food hung heavy in the air.

Garrow began to speak over the din. “Roran, Murtagh, I will trust you to park the wagons and  _ guard them well _ .”

Nodding, Murtagh assumed a look of dutiful determination. “Of course, Uncle, we will.”

“How about you and Eragon, Father?” Roran asked.

“Eragon will be accompanying me.” Garrow turns to the boy in question, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Please bring the stones with you.”

With a quick nod, Eragon gathers the stones in his arms. They weren’t terribly heavy, but he was afraid of dropping them by mistake.

He sets off with his uncle, amidst Roran and Murtagh’s grumbling. Around them, people were examining the traders’ wares, bartering with them loudly as their children ran and screamed. Twice, Eragon had to fight the urge to stop and ogle at the wares. The first was for an array of powdered dyes lined together with some unfamiliar spices, while the other was for a display of finely-dyed cloth. He couldn’t afford any of them, and he knows it, but it never stopped him from admiring what he saw. It made him dream of another life, where his family lived with Selena and her faceless lover. 

It didn’t take long before he noticed that something was amiss. The traders’ clothes were faded and patched, the faces gaunter than last year. The children seemed more timid, shying away even from Carvahall’s little ones. The adults were armed with an assortment of weapons that they carried with the ease of seasoned users. It was a far cry from the cheerful folk that they were known to be, and thinking of what could have befallen them did nothing but fill Eragon with worry.

The world as they know it was changing. Could the stones have something to do with this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. That came out later than it was supposed to be. I've been stuck in a bit of a creative rut, trying to figure out how to bridge the story between the boys coming home and the traders arriving. I'm not sure how I crammed this into a couple of paragraphs seven years ago, to be honest, now that I'm looking at this actual entire chapter that expanded it. A lot of the scenes came from the book itself, adjusted to fit the writing style and the conversations inserted here and there, but we'll be diverging a bit next chapter with a Roran POV.


	4. Winds of Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio enjoy their time in Carvahall, but not all is as it seems.

Throughout most of his life, Roran pictured himself as a dutiful son. He’s done everything his father asked him to, kept his cousins in line, and avoided causing trouble with Sloan. He did his chores diligently, too, even when Eragon and Murtagh complained incessantly.

Today, he felt torn. While he understood that he had to guard their wares with Murtagh, he longed to hear what the traders had to say about the stones too. They’re clearly made of  _ magic _ — danger and mystery, both — but he wanted to understand them more, too. He knew that Father and Eragon would tell them all about it, but hearing everything for himself felt different, somehow.

Seeing Murtagh patiently — albeit sullenly — sitting atop their cart was enough to make the initial annoyance dissipate. He’s no child anymore, and Father assigned him to look after their wares for a reason. He’d rather not destroy the trust.

Besides, it might be easier to find Katrina if he stayed put.

With a sigh, he settled down beside Murtagh, arms crossed. He watched the crowd passing by, trying to spot the familiar shock of coppery curls.

“Looking for someone?” Murtagh asked with a smirk. “Katrina?”

“None of your business.” Roran felthis cheeks burn, even as he mentally berated himself over it. He’ll be turning sixteen in a few weeks — a man grown — and shouldn’t be acting like a smitten child.

Chuckling, Murtagh turned his attention to the crowd too. “No need to act like so. You’re blushing like a maid on Midsummer's eve.”

With a roll of his eyes, Roran decided to keep his mouth shut instead of giving in to the goading. Only  _ boys _ stooped so low. He was almost a man by now, and it won’t hurt to start acting like one.

An awkward moment of silence passed between the cousins. Roran knew that breaking it meant giving in to Murtagh's jokes and questions, which might ultimately lead to a discussion about Katrina. While he was aware that he often jabbered about her nonstop, everything was different today. His nerves were starting to get the better of him.

At the sight of Katrina's bright mane, a jolt of lightning seemed to run down Roran's body. The pack resting on his lap felt so heavy all of a sudden as he clutched it tightly. The mental reminder to conduct himself was all but futile now. There's too much energy thrumming within him.

Before he can stop himself — or even gather his wits — he raised his hand to call her attention. "Katrina, I'm here!"

She turned with a smile upon hearing her name. It remained even as she waded her way through the slowly growing crowd, murmuring politely to the people she brushed past. Oh, how lovely she was to behold.

To Roran’s relief, Murtagh didn’t spew out any comments.

Katrina clasped her hands together as she approached Roran, a pretty blush staining her cheeks. Her hair danced with the icy wind. “Can I help you with something today?”

Flashing a quick warning glare at his cousin, he hopped off the wagon, still clutching his pack close. Despite the sudden wave of embarrassment that hit him, he forced himself to look straight into her eyes. “I know I failed to fulfill my promise during your last nameday, and I wish to uphold it, still.”

She raised her dainty brows. “Is that so?” Her words were deceptively polite — it’s all too easy to hear the coyness behind the courtesies.

He couldn’t help but smile warmly. He can’t ever regret his admiration for her. “I offer you a gift, though I fear you won’t want it.” Still, he opened his pack and retrieved the stone, bundled up protectively in a thick layer of rags. The fewer people who saw it, the better.

“Why wouldn’t I want it?” She reached out tentatively to brush her hand against the roughspun rags. “What’s the matter?”

Just to be on the safe side, he looked around to make sure that no one was eavesdropping before turning his attention back to Katrina. “My cousin found this,” he whispered, “in the Spine. There were three others — Father and Eragon are trying to sell them, by now — but I wanted you to have this. T-The color reminds me of your eyes.”

“Oh.” Carefully, Katrina peeled back a layer of rags, revealing a sliver of the stone. With a little smile, she caressed it with her finger. “It’s beautiful. Truly.”

Feeling bolder, Roran holds it out. “It’s yours now, if you want it.”

“Father won’t like it — you know what he’s like when it comes to the Spine — but I’ll have it all the same. I trust that you mean well.”

“I always do.”

She beamed at his words. Carefully, he takes the stone from his hand — rags and all. “I will treasure this, Roran. Father won’t lay a hand on it, I promise.”

A blush crept up his face. “Thank you.”

“No, thank  _ you _ .” Katrina leaned down to kiss his cheek before tucking the stone in her worn-out satchel. “I shall see you later. Father will be looking for me at any moment now.”

“Of course.” Roran patted his cheek over and over again, feeling the warmth from the kiss slowly spreading throughout his body. A foolish part of him wished to shout in joy. “I hope to talk to you later.”

“We shall see.” Smiling, she took one step away, back towards the crowd. “We’ll talk more later, if time permits.”

He watched her leave, mirroring the gentle smile on her face. Trying to clear his head, he clambered up the wagon with a sigh, ignoring Murtagh's curious stares. He didn’t let any japes sour his good mood.

Thankfully, Murtagh took the hint. He didn't mention Katrina. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all.

Minutes passed in relatively pleasant silence. Only a few villagers stopped by to greet them — the cold must have been too much for anyone to tarry. Even Roran was all too aware of the little puffs of icy mist that came with every breath he took, and he hoped that Father and Eragon would return soon. The faster they returned indoors, the better.

His spirits lifted up at the sight of Eragon heading after them, though the slight frown on his cousin's lips meant that the conversation with the traders was not favorable at all. The only relief Roran felt stemmed from the fact that Eragon's pack still seemed to be full. Perhaps the stones truly were not as dangerous as Father feared.

"What happened?" Murtagh asked his brother. "Didn't the traders want our most impressive treasure?"

"Not at all." With a huff, Eragon hoisted himself up the wagon too and slumped against a sack of barley. His eyes darted around furtively before he spoke again. "Merlock entertained us well enough, though he left us with more questions than answers."

Roran raised a brow. "And is that the reason why he didn't buy the stones?"

"Aye. He tested them right in front of us — explained that they were harder than diamonds, mind you. Nothing made a scratch, though slapping them with a dagger made such a beautiful sound. It meant they were hollow, he said."

"Hollow?" Murtagh yelped.

A frown creased Roran's face. He eyed Eragon's pack thoughtfully, wondering what the stones hid within. "So perhaps the stones contain a fabulous treasure."

"Perhaps." Eragon crossed his arms with a surly scowl. "Merlock didn't know what they were made from, only that they were made from magic. He didn't know how valuable they were either — it's why he refused to buy them. Besides, it was nothing but a curiosity to him. Not even traders will buy something without any practical value."

"That's it, then?" Roran understood his cousin's disappointment. He couldn't believe that such a discovery would just go to waste. "They're useless?"

"Not really." Eragon flashed a dreamy smile. "He offered to help us look for a buyer from the southern cities, though we won't be paid until next winter. Uncle refused, but maybe..."

Roran knew where this was going, and he didn't like it. "No. We can't just run off to the south on a whim, Eragon. Father's right. If we want to make money out of them, we'll have to think of other ways to sell them — or find out what's in them."

Murtagh briefly pursed his lips in disagreement, though he clearly knew better than to argue. "Is that all from the trader?"

The question made Eragon shift in discomfort. It didn’t bode well. "When I mentioned how we discovered the stone, he told us disturbing news. The Varden's attacks in the south have increased, and the King had no choice but to send more of his troops to fight them. It gave the Urgals free reign. They're apparently heading south and east, past populated areas. Entire villages had to move because their fields were destroyed."

"So that's why the traders are late this year?" Murtagh asked.

"Apparently. And —" Eragon paused and looked around once more. "— there's news of a Shade, too."

"Urgals and Shades? Hah." There had been no Urgals seen this far north in the Spine, Roran knew , and the Urgal's horns mounted in Morn's tavern were nothing but a curiosity. However, the stones appeared to them through magic, didn't they? Perhaps something else was afoot.

***

The boys spent the rest of their morning wandering around the traders' camp as Father went off to sell their goods. When the cold became too unbearable, Roran led his cousins back to Carvahall, where they sought shelter in Morn's tavern. Despite the sudden flurry of snow, the twisting black Urgal horns mounted at the top of the door made the establishment easier to find.

Smoke from tallow candles billowed at their faces as soon as they headed inside. Though most villagers were still busy among the traders, a small crowd was already occupying a good number of the oak tables. The bar stood right across the room, long and low and sturdy, with staves stacked against one corner for patrons who wished to carve.

Curly-haired Morn himself was tending to it today. The bottom half of his face was short and mashed — Horst said that he once fell asleep on a grinding wheel. Despite his somewhat fearsome appearance, he had always been kind to the boys, serving as their greatest source of news and gossip.

"Good to see the three of you," he greeted with a customary smile. "No Garrow today?"

"Good to see you too," Roran responded politely. "Father's still busy haggling with traders, I'm afraid. We promised to meet him at Horst's for dinner."

Behind them, an argument broke out between the crowd and a couple of well-dressed traders. "Who are they?"

"Grain buyers." Morn's smile fell, replaced by a look of loathful displeasure. "First they wanted to buy our grain at ridiculously low prices, and now they're telling the wildest stories. Hah! As if we'll believe them."

Murtagh rolled his eyes. "No matter what they say, the people here still need money. They won't let themselves get taken advantage of."

"But what kind of stories were they spreading?" Eragon pressed on.

Murtagh pursed his lips as the village tanner exchanged barbs with the traders. "They say the Varden hired Urgals to destroy us all, and only the king's grace protects us still. Utter  _ bullcrap _ , that. If Galbatorix cared for us all, he wouldn't be sending those blasted Forsworn of his to raze villages to the ground. Go on, listen to their foolishness yourselves."

Bowls of hearty mutton stew and tankards of beer in hand, the boys headed for a table in the corner to eat. In between, Roran looked up to steal a glance at the strange traders.

The one seated closest to them was so large that he almost couldn't fit on his chair, with a hairless head that seemed to shine even in the semidarkness. In contrast, his companion was deathly thin despite his round, lumpy face. Both men were dressed so grandly, gaudy jewels flashing on their fingers. One of those surely must have been worth a fortune.

"They can afford to dress well but buy grain at low prices? Hah. Surely they jest," Murtagh whispered.

Roran smirked derisively. "Perhaps they can only afford cheap grain because they spend too much on their clothes."

Eragon snorted. "Then it makes them as foolish as they sound."

The argument grew louder as they turned back to their food. The portly trader's claims of protection from King Galbatorix was drowned out by the other patrons' outraged cries of disbelief.

Roran had to agree with the villagers. "The Varden is the Empire's enemy, and for good reason. With those Riders at their disposal, they're surely more than capable of fending the Urgals off."

Murtagh shook his head. "They're too busy terrorizing villages to care about what the people truly need."

With a small frown, Eragon swirled his stew around. "They say that anyone who hates the Empire is welcome in the Varden — but how sure are we that they truly mean to help the people?"

"Aye, can't say that for sure." Murtagh leaned down as the traders' gaze swept towards them. "But if it comes to it, I suppose we'll have to take a risk and throw our lot in with them."

As the argument threatened to turn violent, the three finished their meal and fled the tavern. They had a few hours left before sundown, and plenty of time to explore.

* * *

The dinner at Horst’s was hearty as always. Laughter and stories flowed among the guests as freely as food and drink. To Roran’s relief, no one spoke of the strange traders in Morn’s tavern — an unpleasant topic, anyway.

At the end of the meal, hosts and guests alike strolled out of the house, back to the field where the traders were camped. Wares had been set aside for the day and campfires had been snuck out. A great space had been cleared in the middle of the area, circled by candle-topped poles. Bonfires blazed cheerily on one end, next to the brightest and most worn-out tents.

The troubadours came out first, clad in gaudy outfits. Old minstrels accompanied them, singing tales that the lithe dancers acted out. Their tales brought nothing but laughter and mirth — a welcome sight in these troubled times.

As the night grew deeper and the candles burned lower, they slowly gave way to the village storyteller, Brom. Tall and proud, with graying black hair, some said that he was far older than he seemed. Rust-brown eyes scanned the hushed crowd as he adjusted his black cloak.

Tonight, he spoke of a tale unlike any other. He wove together the history of the Dragon Riders. His story was that of a war between the dragons and elves, Eragon the First Rider, and even Murtagh, the first human to join the mighty order. As the night wore on, the tale of wonder turned grim. In a mournful lament, he spoke of Galbatorix who lost his first dragon, and the madness that led to the creation of the Forsworn and the destruction of the Riders.

With a flourishing bow, Brom stepped away with what seemed to be tears in his eyes. As soon as the hush turned into murmurs, Father leaned towards Roran and his cousins.

“Consider yourself lucky,” he declared. “I’ve only heard that tale twice. If the Empire finds out that Brom recited it, he may not live to see another moon’s turn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. That was a long break. Had trouble with putting this update together, but I'm glad it's out of my system now.


	5. Here There be Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life changes for everyone.

Arya had never been so _lost_ in her life. Before venturing out on her first proper task with Faolin, all she knew was the safety of Ellesmera — their stern and imposing mother, Oromis-elda and his daughters, the ever-temperamental Rhunon, and a myriad other elves with their deceptive smiles and dangerous courtesies. Life was both simple and complicated, but it was everything she knew.

Trapped as she was, she had longed to leave since she learned of Faolin's solemn task. She wanted to be like her dear brother, duty and adventure.

It took much pestering before their mother agreed to let her join his next trip, eliciting promises and oaths from Faolin. Most of their trip was uneventful, to Arya's frustration. They were to head for Osilon first, to pick up an egg that was under their care. They made it there safely, the egg secured in Arya's pack, but their good fortune wasn't meant to last for long.

Disaster befell them on the way to Kirtan where they were meant to pick up the sixth dragon egg. They were traveling near the fringes of Du Weldenvarden, following a small stream that their horses had drunk in. The Shade and his Urgals have taken them off-guard, capturing Faolin who fortunately had the clarity of mind to send the four eggs under his care to safety.

Arya had escaped, bounding farther into the mystical woods. She was alone and on foot — her poor horse slain by the blasted Urgals — but she was unharmed and faster than her pursuers. They couldn't follow her farther in, where the elves' magic was thickest.

She headed farther east, to Kirtan. The keepers were reluctant to hand over their dragon egg but she was insistent. Despite what had transpired, the Queen insisted that she must continue her journey. There's no one to rely on now but her and it's finally time to prove herself.

With fresh supplies and a new steed, she went on to Ceunon, and the river Edda. There, she boards a raft powered by elven magic and heads for the Beor Mountains and the land of the dwarves.

The uneventful weeks of travel were nothing but a relief to her. The Shade's attack and Faolin's abduction filled her with such fear that stopped her from getting even just an ounce of rest. She had brimmed with confidence at the beginning of her journey, but now she only feels shattered. Afraid. Perhaps she and her people are not so indomitable after all.

At times she wondered whether she had sealed her brother's doom. She wasn't _meant_ to accompany him — the decision to let her accompany him had set the journey back for three days. The delay could have easily cost them everything.

She knew that focusing on what happened won't help her one whit, however. The future was what mattered — it was where she must cast her hopes and dreams to move forward.

None of the dwarven guides at the other end of the river were welcoming. The dragon eggs and Queen Islanzadi's missive did nothing to change their surly countenance. A part of her wondered if they did not trust her despite their races' long-standing alliance. Did they treat Faolin the same way, despite his stories about dwarven hospitality?

The brief march to Farthen Dur irked her. The dwarves' sullen energy seeped through her being, bringing nothing but gloom and frustration. Her thoughts strayed back to poor Faolin, captured and perhaps tortured for answers he will never give.

The despair hung around her like a cloak. She was in a haze that never lifted even when she finally met Ajihad and King Hrothgar that night. It took all of her strength to tell them what happened back in Du Weldenvarden without weeping. Oh, how her tears would have amused them — a pristine elf driven to tears by her brother's terrible fate. She couldn't give in, however. She knew that she would never stop once she succumbed.

A girl of an age with her had been ordered by Ajihad to serve as an escort. She introduced herself as Nasuada with a polite and proper smile, a nervous flush coloring her dark copper cheeks.

"The repository isn't far from here, Lady Arya," she murmurs as she leads the young elf through a winding corridor.

The courtesies shook Arya off her thoughts. She hated them even back home. "I'm no lady. Just Arya is fine, and I can call you Nasuada too if that's what you'd like."

Nasuada's smile eased up at those words. "Then I shall call you Arya, _as you wish_."

They walked in companionable silence. The brief exchange had been enough to fend the sorrow and fear, for now. It must be the prospect of a new proper acquaintance that had nothing to do with her duties. Thinking too much of everything she had to do without Faolin only caused Arya to spiral further into despair.

Talking to someone who was simply there, meanwhile, was helping her feel better.

Nasuada led her on to a pair of ornate gilded doors inlaid with an assortment of clear and black diamonds that formed images of vines and leaves. Guards eyed her but made no comment. They must have been expecting the girls.

"Is this it?" Arya whispered, clutching the straps of her pack with trembling hands.

Nasuada nodded. Pursing her lips together, she threw the doors open to reveal a small room with marble walls. "I'll take you to your rooms once you place the eggs there." She pointed to the six cushioned pedestals that formed a circle in the center of the area, lit brightly by the dwarves' teardrop lamps. 

Arya took the green egg first, holding it securely with two hands. It felt odd beneath her touch. Baffled, she tugged it out nevertheless, eager to get this over with. She moved too quickly, however, which sent the golden egg tumbling out too.

She cried out in panic.

To her relief, Nasuada was fast. She swooped down to grab the egg, cradling it between her arms to protect it. "Shouldn't you be a little more careful than — _oh_!"

The rest of her lecture was drowned out by a pair of loud squeaks. The eggs began to rattle and move.

* * *

Just a little over a month after the traders' arrival, Katrina woke to the strange feeling that something was wrong. She couldn't understand what was going on at first. The cold that seeped through her bones was a natural sensation — it was winter, after all. Nestled between her quilts and blankets, she felt comfortable enough as it is, but she couldn't help but feel a nagging thought wriggling in her head.

Her eyes roamed her room as she sat up, her gaze quickly falling upon Roran's gift. It was snugly wrapped in an old gray rag to protect it not just from the cold but also from her father's prying eyes.

The rag trembled — or perhaps it was the stone within. Katrina crawled out of her bed, curious in spite of her fear. Items from the Spine were most likely dangerous and yet she already made her choice when she accepted the gift. The rational bit in her head told her to stay away but she reached out nevertheless to free the stone from its coverings.

Murmuring reassurances to herself, she decides to follow her instincts. Carefully, she took the trembling stone in her arms. Cracks began to appear on its surface as it squeaked loudly — enough to accidentally wake her father, had he not been too busy drinking in Morn's tavern.

The cracks grew, silver chips falling to the floor. It takes Katrina a moment more to realize what's happening. She wasn't holding a stone at all. It was an _egg_.

It brought more questions than answers, though she was sure that some will be answered once it hatches. Slowly, she set the egg down on the floor and sat beside it, cross-legged. She had to be patient, she knew, and prepare herself for whatever comes out.

Time moved in a strange fashion. She was not sure if hours or only minutes pass as the egg continues to tremble and crack. Katrina clasped her hands together, trying to clear her mind of her worries, her eyes affixed on the object by her feet.

Finally, slowly but surely, bigger pieces of the egg fell off. A scaly silver creature crawled out, croaking softly, affixing her with its smokey eyes. She stares back, trembling, as her mind begins to process what she's looking at: _a dragon_.

* * *

Eragon peeked from the foot of his bed at the three dragons emerge from the stones — stones that were actually eggs, he now knows. They were all scales and joints, tiny fangs, claws, and spines. The red one pads forward with a pitiful little squeak.

"Those are the famed mighty dragons?" Murtagh blurted out with a breathy laugh.

Roran shot him a withering glare. "You speak too soon — those claws are surely enough to tear our eyes off."

"Maybe. But they're tiny. Maybe we can outrun—"

"Hush." Eragon raised a finger to his lips, his gaze affixed upon the three tiny creatures.

The blue dragon lifted its head and stared at him, its icy eyes wiser than they should have been. Its red and violet brethren approached Murtagh and Roran too. The three croak loudly as if begging for attention.

Roran scowled. "What do they want?"

"Maybe they're hungry. Or maybe they need pats. I do feel the urge to touch that red one." Murtagh hopped off his bed and approached the creature in question.

"That is ridiculous."

"We don't know enough dragons to speak so surely."

Eragon found himself agreeing with his brother. He had started to approach the blue dragon, which croaked at him again. Beckoning him on, perhaps. "Maybe they'll stop making noises if we do something."

"Very well." Roran sighed and joined them on the floor. He eyed the violet dragon warily though he scooted closer to the squeaking creature. "On the count of three, then. One..."

"Two..." Eragon continued.

"Three," concluded Murtagh.

Eragon scooted forward warily, eyes never leaving the hatchling. Carefully, he held out his hand and lowered it to his snout. A blast of energy shoots up from his hand — hot and cold like liquid fire. He cried out and backed away, collapsing on the floor. He hears someone fall to his left with a muffled thump but he barely had any energy to help them out. His vision was too clouded by the pain as it was.

He remained sprawled on the floor for what felt like hours as the pain slowly receded, leaving only a warm tingling in its wake. Sweat clung to his shivering body as he finally sits upright. He slowly lifted his hand, staring as a diffused silver oval appeared on his palm. Breathing heavily, he slowly lifted his gaze to look for his brother and cousin. Both seemed to be in a similarly bewildered state.

Wordlessly, Eragon lifted his hand and showed his palm, shimmering faintly even in the semidarkness. Murtagh lifted his own palm first in response. Roran was next, still trembling as he showed them his newly-marked palm.

"What just happened?" Murtagh asked breathlessly.

"I-I don't know." Eragon looked away, turning his attention to the rich blue dragon — and felt an even stranger sensation, as if something was brushing against the corners of his mind, casting away barriers he never knew existed until then. He mentally reeled back, though the temptation to reach out to the dragon with his mind felt strong, fearing that he would float out of his body and get lost in a strange, terrifying void. He didn't want to lose himself, whatever that should have meant for him. The connection vanished as quickly as it had appeared, as if in response to his fear.

He glared at the dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going back to the old fic, it seemed like most of the dragon hatching event was primarily written from the Carvahall boys' point of view. I felt that it wouldn't work here, so I incorporated more from Arya's side of things (as a way to catch up to her journey too) and Katrina who really needs more attention.
> 
> Now, about the timeline. Unlike the book (and the original fic), the eggs don't hatch the same night that Brom told his story. Arya needed time to travel to Tronjheim and without a clear timeline of the travel to Ellesmera in Eldest, I had to give her enough leeway. 21 days didn't feel enough, even with elf magic.


	6. Dawn of a New Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrina discovers that she's not alone. Arya and Nasuada scheme.

Dawn came, clear and cold.

Katrina barely slept a wink after the dragon’s hatching but she still felt wide awake. As the watery sun began to break into the room, the creature stood up to face the windows in clear welcome. It paid her no attention, not even as she scuttled over to join it. Together, the pair watched the pale sunlight slowly creep closer to the bed, dust motes dancing before its soft golden glow.

The moment of peace wasn't meant to last long, however. Katrina had to make sure that the dragon was safe. Though this was her home, she knew her father well enough to expect the worst reactions from him. She couldn't trust him — she hasn't, not since the weeks leading to Mother's departure. She heard their fights, heard how he had struck her so hard that her head hit the kitchen table. His cruelty coupled with the fear and hatred of things he can't understand did not bode well for the dragon.

With a sigh, Katrina quietly padded out of her room, pausing briefly outside her father's to listen for his telltale snore. She only heard silence — he must have drunk enough to pass out at Morn's. It wouldn't have surprised her. Smiling to herself, she padded farther along the house, gathering old rags and scraps of leather that she carefully tucked into her largest herb basket.

Pausing by the stairs leading down to her father's shop, she wondered if she should dare. She remained there until the tingling in her palm reassured her that she  _ could and must _ .

She chose scraps of meat that weren't fit to be sold anymore. Surely, her father wouldn't miss them. There was plenty to feed a family of three for an entire day — more than enough for a dragon hatchling to survive for a week. She wrapped the meat in a piece of oiled cloth and placed it in the basket too.

Despite its initial squirm of discomfort, the dragon didn't complain when she picked it up. Placing it in the basket earned her a look of disdain, though.

She graced it with an unimpressed sigh. "It's either  _ that  _ or get in trouble. People here won't take kindly to you."

To her surprise, it effectively calmed the dragon.

She headed out of their home through the back door, deftly locking it behind her. Carvahall was a small community but it was better to be safe than sorry. Some children from the smaller farms in the outskirts of the village weren't averse to theft, and their shop itself had been a victim twice.

The thought saddened her. Had her father not been such a cruel miser, those children would have been fed instead. Her father prefered turning them away with a few choice insults that the entire village could hear.

Maybe if she wasn't so  _ afraid  _ of him...

She finally relaxed as she made it to the dark forest. There was no one here to pry. Heading farther and farther in, she wandered around in search of the perfect place to hide her dragon.

Unexpected voices reached her ears as she approached a tree-ringed knoll, making her freeze in her tracks. 

“Are you sure?” she heard Roran say. What was he doing there so early in the morning?

“This seems to be private enough for now,” Murtagh replied with a tired sigh. “I don’t think Uncle has ventured  _ this  _ far yet — I’m sure that few of the villagers have, either.”

“A  _ few  _ villagers would still pose a risk.”

“Everything we’re doing at this point is risky, Roran.”

“Can you just  _ stop _ arguing? It’s not getting us anywhere.” Eragon’s words were followed by a cacophony of squeaks.

The hair on the back of Katrina’s neck began to prickle as the dragon in her basket shifted. There was something  _ strange  _ in the air. Running seemed like the smartest thing to do right now and yet she stays rooted to the spot, waiting for her dragon to make a move.

And move, it did. With a loud trill, it leapt out of the basket and soared around her with unsteady wings. It chirped right at her face before bounding towards the knoll, leaving her to give chase.

“What was that?” Murtagh called out.

A cacophony of chirps and squeaks rang out from beyond the trees, followed by the boys’ panicked bickering. Katrina tripped on a rock as she followed her dragon up the rise of earth and into a massive, tree-ringed clearing on top.

“Katrina!”

“What in the  _ blazes  _ are you doing here?”

“Is that a  _ dragon _ ?”

“I should be asking  _ you  _ the same thing.” Katrina crossed her arms as her dragon joined what seemed to be its brethren. The ground shimmered in flecks of silver and violet, red and blue.

* * *

Loud knocks roused Arya from her troubled sleep. The previous day had been nothing but  _ exhausting  _ — she was passed from leader after leader after yet another leader after her dragon hatched, and she was only allowed to finally rest after hearing the admiring gushes of half the citizens of Tronjheim.

She mumbled incoherently as her hand found her sword's hilt, clearing her head and preparing for an attack. Her dragon chirped by her feet. Her entire body tensed as the door slowly creaked open.

Nasuada peeked in, clearly as sleepy as the young elf herself. "Apologies for disturbing you, Arya, but my father wanted to speak to us."

"So  _ early _ ?" Arya slipped off her bed nonetheless, scratching the back of her head. Was it normal for elves to itch like she does? "Is something the matter?"

"I don't know, but he said it was of the utmost importance."

"I'll be there, then. Just give me a moment to get ready."

She sighed as soon as Nasuada left her — and her dragon — alone. Yesterday's ruckus was far from over, it seemed, and she was left with no time to figure out her next move. She didn't even have time to inform her mother about the eggs yet.

She slipped into a fresh green tunic after washing her face and hair. If fate was kind to her, then she'll have a proper bath after this meeting. It was something to look forward to before she faced the inevitable conversation with her mother. To be back in Ellesmera so soon after her journey was something she both resented and hoped for.

Perhaps the Shade's attack  _ changed  _ her.

Brushing away her thoughts with a loud snort, she held her arms out for her dragon to climb on. "Come here. We have a long day ahead of us."

The dragon stared at her with its leaf green eyes before croaking loudly and scampering to her shoulder. It was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Together, they headed out of the room. Arya took great care to lock the door behind her with magic — just in case someone tried to break in. While the Varden were allies, not all of their goals are the same. Humans and dwarves, like elves, had their own personal desires too.

Though it still took some time and a few questions to people she passed by, Arya managed to find her way to Ajihad's study without much trouble. Ajihad himself was waiting for her there, along with King Hrothgar and even Nasuada. A small gilded mirror was propped up on Ajihad's desk, teeming with faintly-concealed magic. Nasuada’s golden dragon settled down before it, sniffing curiously.

Ajihad smiled pleasantly. "Do sit, Lady Arya."

_ Lady _ . Arya tried her best not to bristle as she sat down but judging from King Hrothgar's raised brow, she wasn't doing a good job of it. "Is something the matter?" she asked in an attempt to deflect their attention from her uncomfortable countenance.

The two leaders exchange grim looks. "Last night, we contacted Brom to inform him about your dragons."

"Brom?" Arya's face lit up in a bright grin. She grew up hearing stories about the famed Brom. "He's still alive?"

King Hrothgar turned to her with a look of disbelief. "Your queen  _ never  _ informed you?"

"They don't tell me  _ anything _ ," she snapped dourly. "Faolin was supposed to tell me more while we travelled but unfortunately I was the only one who made it here."

Ajihad hummed in acknowledgement. "Perhaps this warrants a conversation with Islanzadi soon. For now, however, we must turn our attention to other matters. Brom, who is currently staying in Carvahall, reported that a village boy was asking suspicious questions about dragons last night. He's even caught a glimpse of what may be the lad's gedwey ignasia."

Arya glances at her own left palm, and the silver oval now taking up space. "A Rider like us? But  _ how _ ?"

"You yourself mentioned that you had no idea where Lord Faolin transported the other eggs when the Shade attacked. Perhaps they somehow ended up in some villager's care." Ajihad doubted his own words. It was evident on the small frown that creased his forehead. "Brom refused to return here to begin your training — not until he investigates the possibility of the other eggs hatching."

"What does this mean for us?"

"It means," King Hrothgar proclaimed gravely, "that your training will be delayed for now. You and Nasuada will be treated with the utmost respect as Dragon Riders, and will be accomodated accordingly, but you will not be allowed to take part in any of the Varden's activities until you finish your initial training with Brom."

Nasuada slammed her hand on the table. "But that's preposterous! Father, surely you can't agree to this? I've started my training with the Melikir already and —"

"And it will have to wait," Ajihad chided her. "You are no mere future agent of the Varden anymore, my sweetling. You are a Rider of the Varden now — with all the responsibilities that entails. Will you endanger yourself, knowing that your dragon's life is in your hands?"

"Maybe not," Arya argued on behalf of her new friend, "but we can't just sit around while everyone makes plans for us behind our backs. Riders are no mere pawns—"

"But the two of you are young, still. We can't protect you outside of Farthen Dur," King Hrothgar chided her. "Despite Brom's confidence on the matter, we have no truly safe way of sending you to Carvahall."

"We can think of something," Arya argued. "Maybe my mother can help."

Ajihad shook his head sadly. “We can’t rely on too many  _ maybes, _ Lady Arya.”

He was right, and Arya knew it. It still didn't sit well with her, though. She watched the two leaders discuss the Riders' new guards and their accommodations, even as she and Nasuada watched with mutinous glares. The cogs in her head began to turn, forming idea after idea. She couldn't just stay here, not when the Varden seemed content with coddling her the way her mother did.

Her mind strayed to Faolin, making her face scrunch up in grief. Her impulsiveness may have caused him his life — a sin she will bear forevermore — but hadn't he told her to take charge of her own fate? Perhaps there was no harm in scheming here.

Their plans felt wrong. So wrong. A quick glance at Nasuada told her that the other girl felt the same. Their dragons themselves were restless, sharing their Riders' displeasure, and it was so easy to imagine their encouragement in whatever reckless plan that they might craft.

_ Reckless _ . That's one way to put it.

Arya didn't breathe a sigh of relief — not even when they were finally dismissed. Instead, she pulled Nasuada into an empty corridor and stared straight into the human girl's amber eyes. "We can't stay here."

"I know, but what can we do?" Nasuada clasped her hands together — a vision of calm despite her obvious turmoil. "They'll be assigning guards to us. We'll be caught before we even make it out of the mountain."

The ghost of a smile flitted across Arya's face. "Elves know  _ magic _ , my good Rider. Trust me."

Though her hesitation was evident, Nasuada nodded in agreement. "Very well, then. Where shall we begin?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things to note here:  
> 1\. I skipped the entire Eragon interrogating Brom scene to avoid repetition.  
> 2\. In case it wasn't clear, Eragon talked to Brom the night after Katrina's POV. Arya's POV happens the morning after that.  
> 3\. Eragon asked Brom about dragons here. It's way before the Carvahall kids started naming their new partners in crime.  
> 4\. Team Carvahall and Team Tronjheim will meet each other under different circumstances.


	7. A Changing World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four dragons are named.

His life — no,  _ four lives  _ irrevocably changed in the span of just a few weeks. The dragons keep growing, stronger and stronger, with every passing day, until they were eventually allowed to roam free in the woods. Their squeaks have transformed into low roars, their hums now accompanied by a low, earthy rumble. With their explosive growth, their shoulders are now level with their riders’ elbows, their scales as hard as chainmail. Dagger-sharp teeth flash whenever they open their mouths to snap up prey.

The growth was not physical, either. The children soon learned how to use their mental contact, exchanging images and impressions with their new dragons. Though the method was imprecise, it was enough to stop the dragons from following them whenever they had to go home. It also taught the dragons the importance of hunting only within the Spine. Their connection grew stronger with every passing day until they can communicate miles apart. The link remained, even when it wasn’t being used.

The only problem was that despite their best efforts, it’s growing harder to conceal the dragons. Claw marks marred dozens of tree trunks deep within the woods and their steaming dung heaps littered countless clearings. Should Garrow venture farther than usual in the forest, he would surely discover the secret.

It was what pushed the four to discuss the best way to reveal the dragons’ existence to Garrow — Sloan is a far-off eventuality for now. It was Roran who suggested for them to wait until the dragons had names, at least.

Eragon managed to ask Brom about his knowledge of dragons the very day after the eggs hatched, under the pretext of waiting for Murtagh who visited Horst for tool repairs. It was a brief and enlightening question that also provided the four with potential names for their dragons. However, the dragons didn’t  _ feel _ ready to be named at that time and so the children held it off for another day.

With the connection between the dragons and their Riders growing stronger by the day, however, they all found less and less reasons to delay it. One crisp and cold afternoon, about a week after a particularly bad snowfall, the four found themselves meeting in the knoll where they first hid their dragons.

There was  _ something  _ in the air and it had nothing to do with winter.

“Are you sure this is the right time?” Roran asked, ever the worrier. “What if none of the names we have to offer will suit them?”

“Then let’s think of something that will,” Katrina murmured soothingly as she reached out to give his hand a squeeze.

He glanced at the sky. It was empty for now, though the dragons were nearby. “Then let’s call  _ them _ . I’d rather not waste time — it might start snowing again, and not being home before that might raise questions.”

Closing his eyes, Eragon strode to one side of the clearing and opened his mind, searching for his dragon. It responded to him easily, showing him a small clearing where it was drinking from a bubbling stream. He impressed upon it the need to come to him quickly, showing an image of the knoll to drive home its point. Despite the dim acknowledgement it gave him, he doubted that it fully understood.

That is, until, a deep but melodious voice boomed in his head.  _ Eragon. _

A single word — his name — was enough to make his entire world seemingly shift. A brief wave of nausea hit him, and it was all he could do to maintain the link to his dragon.  _ Come here. Now. _

The dragon responds with acknowledgement yet again. It shows an image of it taking one last lap of water before taking to the skies in a strong leap. He expects it to be here soon — the clearing with the pond shouldn’t be far from it.

In a few minutes, four dragons circled the sky above the knoll, roaring and humming to each other in acknowledgement of their strength. They flew around the area thrice before landing right in front of their Riders — for there were no other words fit to describe the four children of Carvahall by then.

Such a show of strength was nothing new. The dragons had been doing it since they were strong enough to venture forth in the woods by themselves. Even now, weeks later, it was still a sight to behold. Eragon could never get enough of it.

His own dragon landed before him, blue scales glinting in the watery winter sun. It affixed him with a stern glare that does nothing to mask the mirth in its mind.  _ Eragon _ , it whispered in its mind yet again, soft and warm and amused at the same time.

“Is that all you can say?” Eragon grumbled, closing himself to everything but his dragon. This was the only world he knew at the moment.

_ Yes _ . The mirth turned to mocking as it tilted its head, low, rumbling growls emanating from its throat — laughter.

It took all of Eragon’s strength to stop himself from grumbling.  _ I never expected you to have a sense of humor.  _ He rarely used his mind to speak — not when his dragon apparently couldn’t understand him before.

_ Do you have a problem with that? _ It had a sense of humor  _ and  _ an attitude to match, it seemed.

Eragon scowled.  _ No, I don’t have any. However, you need a name. I can’t just keep calling you my dragon or the blue one forever. Brom gave me a long list. Perhaps we can find something that you like. _

_ I am your dragon as much as you are my Rider, and I am blue. I don’t see what’s wrong with that. _ It ejected a puff of smoke — that’s all it could do, really. If Brom was right, then it can’t breathe fire until its fifth month or so.  _ But very well, I shall humor you. Let us select a name fit for a dragon like me. _

Closing his eyes, Eragon recalled the names that Brom mentioned. It was just a few weeks ago but it already felt like an entire lifetime away. The dragons had grown so much since then.  _ What about Vanilor or his successor, Elidor. They were great dragons. _

_ No.  _ There was amusement in the dragon’s words that its eyes also reflected.  _ Eragon. _

_ That’s my name. _ Crossing his arms, Eragon went on with his list.  _ What about Iormungr? _

The dragon let out an upset puff of breath.  _ No. _

_ Ingothold? Hirador? Fundor? Paarthunax?  _ Eragon blinked as the dragon let out another grating laugh. It blew another puff of smoke right over his face, watching and waiting until realization hit him.  _ Wait, you’re a she, aren’t you? _

_ Yes. And you’re dense, my little Rider. _

_ You’ve quite the nerve to call me little. You can barely reach past my shoulders!  _ With a calming sigh, Eragon cast his mind to the other names that he heard from Brom.  _ Miremel? No? How about Opheila or Lenora? _

_ No. _

_ I give up!  _ This time, Eragon managed to dodge a cloud of smoke. He tried to think of more names to offer the dragon and came up with none — that is, until he remembered the last name that Brom had mentioned in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.  _ Are you Saphira, by chance? _

The dragon’s finally hummed in contentment that seeped through their link.  _ Yes. Finally.  _ Her voice echoed in his mind as the world around them shifted, forming something strong and strange and frankly terrifying.

_ Well met, Saphira.  _ The silver mark on Eragon’s palm glowed briefly with a soft tingle.

Finally, the walls around Eragon faded, returning his awareness to his surroundings. Everything had changed — not just for him, but also for the other Riders and dragons in the clearing. The world had never truly felt so  _ wonderful  _ until today.

The four children — were they only children still, at this point? — stared at each other. The mix of bewilderment and awe was evident on all of their faces.

_ Greetings, younglings. I am Saphira.  _ The dragon hums as she addresses the rest of the group with her deep blue eyes.

Through her, Eragon can feel the faintest traces of the others’ minds — even their dragons.

“I’ve almost ran out of names to offer,” he admits as he feels the weight of their gaze. “She refused everything I suggested. We’re just fortunate enough that Brom mentioned  _ one last name _ .”

“Oh, a she-dragon too?” A smile of approval lit up Katrina’s face.

_ Just like me, _ her silver dragon added, her voice resonating in Eragon’s head — higher and clearer and softer, however it worked for a dragon as fierce as she.  _ Well met, Riders. I am Luneria _ .

_ And I, _ Roran’s violet dragon cut in with a proud huff,  _ am Askanir _ .

“He wasn’t so difficult to name,” Roran added. “He accepted the second name I suggested.”

His words were met with a loud huff from Murtagh. “He’s the only one, then. My dragon is quite the fussy one. A thorn in my side, I should say, so it was fitting to name him —”

_ Thorn, _ the crimson dragon in question finished.  _ I have chosen the name Thorn to strike fear in the hearts of our foes. _

“Well met, all of you.” Eragon found himself grinning as he watched the dragons move closer together, making their Riders stand side by side.

The four dragons hum together, the sound carrying over to their Riders’ minds, radiating nothing but pride and contentment. Eragon closed his eyes, basking in the sense of peace that it brought.

Little did he know that the peace was not meant to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, sorry! Had to get over this hump so we can proceed with the meatier parts of the story. I was supposed to put an Arya and Nasuada POV, but it might just end up repetitive. We'll hear from them next chapter as they head north, before switching back to the action in Carvahall.


	8. Unwanted Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's trouble stirring in Carvahall as the winds of destiny begin to change.

Three peaceful weeks passed. As the dragons grew stronger and more talkative, their Riders began to realize their own powers too.

What started as an act of curiosity on Eragon’s part had turned into daily practice. Now that the Riders were comfortable with talking to their dragons through their minds, they were starting to reach out to each other too, holding conversations privy only to the four of them — and their dragons, of course.

More than once had Eragon been tempted to do it to passing animals and even some of the villagers, but he balked at the thought. Sharing one’s mind was both too intrusive and intimate to be used so lightly, he thought. Still, he hones what he can of his skills alongside his friends, wondering just what serious need they’ll ever have of the ability to talk to each other’s minds.

* * *

The fragile peace broke at the end of the third week after the dragons’ naming.

It began to unravel over a breakfast of cold meat downed with piping hot tea. For the first time in days, the fire had grown hot enough to properly melt the ice from the windows. All that was left now is a messy puddle that one of the boys had to wipe off before they truly start their day.

“I will take care of the chores today,” Garrow said in between sips of tea. “I need you to run a few errands in town for me.”

“All three of us?” Roran asked as the boys exchanged glances.

Garrow nodded with a huff. “Murtagh, I want you to go to Horst’s to bring home the tools that I left there for repairs a few weeks ago. Make sure that nothing is amiss. Roran, I need you to deliver a sack of our surplus vegetables to Morn and Gedric — they promised some coin. Eragon, we’re running low on herbs for fever and body pains. I’ll be sending you to Gertrude to buy a bundle of each. If you have enough to spare, see if you can get crushed peppers too.”

“Are we to leave as soon as we finish the meal?”

“Aye. You all better hurry.”

* * *

Snow was falling lightly when they set off towards the village. Though it hung low from the eastern horizon, the sun was concealed by a blanket of dark, murky clouds. The smell of change hung in the air during their entire trek.

Murtagh cast his mind out for Thorn, knowing that the strength of their minds were both enough to surmount even distance as great as this.

The dragon responds at the tendril of thought. _You are late. Little Katrina is already here._

 _We won’t make it this morning. We have to run errands to the village_. Murtagh could feel his dragon’s frustration and disappointment, but what was he to? He wasn’t about to disobey his uncle.

_Errands?_

_Tasks that I must do at home to appease my uncle_.

 _Oh._ Thorn paused, digesting his words. _Run along, then, and be fast. There’s something strange in the air, and I fear that you little ones might be in danger._

 _Strange?_ Murtagh looked around. There was nothing wrong in his immediate surroundings, but his dragon’s words chilled him to the core. _Very well. We’ll be careful._

Thorn acknowledged his promise with a loud _hmph_ before withdrawing from his mind.

He glanced at his brother and cousin. Both had troubled looks on their faces too. Perhaps their dragons warned them, just like Thorn did.

But what was this supposed danger?

No one dared speak their fears out loud, not even in their minds. Mentioning the _Forsworn_ would only make their fears feel more real.

They walked into a subdued village, shortly before high noon. Though the worst of the winter had finally subsided, most were still wise enough to prefer staying indoors unless they had business to attend to outside.

Not for the first time in his life, Murtagh wished he could enjoy the same luxury. He wouldn’t have minded staying outside if he had Thorn by his side. His mighty dragon’s warmth had proven itself enough to keep the chill of winter at bay.

He parted ways with Eragon and Roran not long after they entered the village. He veered towards Horst’s smithy, rubbing his palms together to stay warm.

Elain answered his knocks with her customary smile. “Horst’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you.” Despite his exhaustion and lingering fear, Murtagh couldn’t help but smile when the willowy woman handed him a cup of piping hot tea. A quick sip instantly warmed him to the bones.

Horst looked up as Murtagh approached and gave him an uncharacteristically grim nod. “Just the lad I’ve been looking for. I hope you made it here without much incidents.”

“Incidents?” Murtagh’s skin crawled, and it took all of his self-control not to shudder. Thorn’s warning rang in his mind, loud and clear. “Is something the matter?”

“Since this morning, a pair of strange fellows in black cloaks have been prowling the streets. They were asking about strange stones — precious ones, from the sound of it. I don’t like this one bit.”

“Quite curious, but I don’t think they’ll want anything to do with my family, anyway. We’re farmers, not jewellers.”

Pausing, Horst gathered the repaired tools into a cloth bundle and handed them to Murtagh. “The problem is, I’m sure a fair few villagers have spotted your brother and uncle having a chat with Merlock when the traders were here — I did, after all. As you’ve said, you’re farmers. What business would you have with a jeweller like him?”

Murtagh kept his mouth shut, though his mind began to race. They should have acted with more secrecy, he knew. There’s nothing to be done now, however. He just hoped that no one with loose lips had seen them.

“We had to sell some old trinkets — Mother left behind some, when she gave birth to me and Eragon.” The lie finally tumbled out of his lips, smooth enough to hide his fear. “Why let them lie around and go to waste when they’ll have more use as coin?”

Horst grunted in agreement. “True, but that won’t put you out of their suspicion, should you find out. Did you come to Carvahall alone today?”

“No. I’m with Eragon and Roran. We split our errands so we can go home faster. Can you tell us where these strangers are?”

“I didn’t warn you so you can go looking, _lad_. You better hurry along. Go home and stay home for a while — those strangers will leave if they don’t find what they want, anyway.”

Murtagh pursed his lips, but he did not complain. Murmuring his thanks, he set down the half-finished cup of tea and excused himself. Horst was right, anyway. They had to leave Carvahall, fast.

As soon as he was out of the smithy, he cast his mind out to Eragon and Roran both. They responded quickly, to his relief.

_Where are you? Horst says there are strangers in the village, asking about the stones._

_I heard the same from Gertrude,_ Eragon mused.

 _So did I, from Morn,_ added Roran. _How could they have found out about us?_

 _Maybe they haven’t_ — _we can’t just assume yet._ Murtagh sighed, stepping aside as a farmer and his wagon of cabbages passed by. _But what I do know is that some people, including Horst, have seen Eragon and Uncle Garrow talking to Merlock. It is suspicious, if one thinks of it too much._

 _We have to leave, then._ Roran’s thoughts were almost reduced to growls. _Eragon and I are here at Morn’s tavern. Meet us here so we can be on our way._ We have to warn Katrina too. Maybe our dragons can pass a message along to Luneria.

They convened as promised as cold winds began to blow. Murtagh’s shudders were more than just the chill. He was afraid of these strangers — afraid of Thorn’s cryptic warnings and the sense of danger that constantly lingered on the air since then.

“We have to warn Katrina too,” Roran hissed as they began to walk.

Eragon nodded along thoughtfully. His eyes kept flicking to the cloudy sky, as if expecting the strangers to swoop down over their heads. “Maybe _they_ can pass a message along to Luneria so she can tell Katrina.”

A voice wafted through the air as they passed by Sloan’s shop — it was the butcher himself, and his words did not bode well. Thinking quickly, Murtagh pulled Roran and Eragon to a shadowed space beside a nearby house. He strained his ears with bated breath, hoping to catch who the deplorable man was speaking to.

“When did this happen?” The speaker’s voice was terribly smooth, sounding almost like a silken hiss.

Sloan grumbled. “A few months ago, obviously, when the traders were in town. They approached a jeweler to inquire. I was nearby, perusing an array of butchers’ knives, so I’ve seen the stones with my own eyes.

Eragon gripped Murtagh’s arm so tightly that his nails dug into his twin brother’s skin. His entire body was trembling from rage. _Lies. Uncle did not reveal the stones until we were in Merlock’s tent._

“Are you sure?” There’s no other word to describe the third voice — it was _moist_ , straight from the depths of the murkiest abyss. The sound sent chills down the three boys’ spines. “It will be unpleasant if you make a mistake.”

Sloan’s chuckle was high and nervous. He was, at least, a worse liar than Murtagh. “I’m sure about that. If Merlock didn’t buy the stones then Garrow and his children must still be keeping them. Why not ask around?”

“They have been quite uncooperative,” the first voice hissed, clearly miffed. “But you, _you_ have been quite helpful. We will not forget that.”

A pair of tall men left the shop mere seconds later, clad in badly-matted velvet cloaks that clung to their strange, lumped backs. Hands covered in leather gloves clutched the hems of their hoods as they scuttled down the porch to the paved street.

There’s no time to waste. After exchanging a quick glance, the three boys began to inch away, afraid of making a sound that might give their position away. Despite their utter silence and attempts at stealth, however, they barely made it past two steps before the strangers stopped to gaze directly at them.

A strange cold gripped Murtagh’s body, starting from his limbs and slowly creeping up his torso. It held him in place, instilling a spell of fear that nearly takes his breath away. He didn’t even have the energy to check on his companions, though he was certain that they were held by the same spell — it could only be magic, he knew. What made matters worse was the fact that the street was completely empty. No one would come running even if they shouted for help.

“There you lads are!” Brom’s blissfully familiar voice rang out, loud and clear. He limped towards the boys, the strangers blocked from his view.

Murtagh mustered enough strength to glance at his companions. His alarm was mirrored on their faces, and Eragon was even attempting to shoot what seemed like a warning look to the old storyteller. 

To their relief, however, Brom’s arrival seemed to have scared the strangers away. After exchanging _disturbing_ hisses and clicks, they turned around and left in quick, purposeful strides. The spell broke as soon as they were gone. Murtagh felt himself tremble as he regained control of his body.

Eragon, poor Eragon, had fallen to all fours. He shivered and sweated and retched, as if he was about to break into a fever.

“What’s going on? Is he sick?” Brom asked, blissfully unaware of the danger that had just passed.

“I’m fine.” Taking a deep, heaving breath, Eragon pulled himself to his feet. “I just felt dizzy all of a sudden, but it has passed.”

Murtagh smiled and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We were about to take him home, actually — we just had to finish our errands here.”

Brom tapped his staff on the ground. “Home is the best place for him, indeed. Let me accompany you to the edge of town. My mind demanded a long walk to invigorate it — most unfortunate for my old bones, I’m afraid.”

 _I would appreciate his company,_ Roran said. _But will he be fine going home on his own?_

Eragon shrugged, masking it under the pretense of a shudder. _The strangers ran from him_.

“Won’t you have any trouble going home?” Murtagh asked out loud, nevertheless.

Chuckling, Brom waved his free hand around. “I’ll be fine. I’m used to walks longer than this. As a matter of fact, I’m quite relieved to have found you today, of all days — especially you, Eragon.”

“M-Me?” Eragon looked up, blinking. “Why?”

“I was wondering if you remember the name of the trader who knew so much dragonlore.”

Roran frowned. _What’s he talking about?_

 _I may have talked a bit too much when I asked him for dragons. I used a knowledgeable trader as an excuse._ Eragon smiled in guilt as he turned to the storyteller. “I’m afraid I still don’t remember.”

The look on Brom’s face was a little too _knowing_ , but thankfully he did not pry. He stopped walking at the edge of the village. “Perhaps it will come to you in time. Do come and tell me when you remember. I’d love to hear about this trader who claims to know so much about dragons.”

Eragon pursed his lips, his face going paler by the second. “Of course.”

“Well then, hasten home. Can’t risk you getting ill on the way.” The old storyteller patted the boy’s hand, and seemed to have gotten caught on his glove. It came off, revealing a brief glimpse of the silver oval on his palm. “Oh, clumsy of me.”

Murtagh squinted suspiciously at Brom as his brother put his glove back on. The storyteller’s eyes seemed to glint, though his face remained a perfect mask of serenity.

As the boys set off, Murtagh was sure that he could hear him whistling a merry tune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this took long enough. Hectic real life reponsibilities paired with a creative drought did me no good at all. Sorry about that. Hope this chapter more than makes up for it.


	9. Trouble Afoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History is made in the wake of a disaster.

**Trouble Afoot**

They barely made it farther into the woods before Katrina’s voice echoed through their minds. _Come here, hurry!_

 _Katrina? Where are you?_ The urgency in her voice sent Roran’s blood thrumming in panic. Something’s _not right_ here. Eerie strangers in Carvahall, Askanir’s cryptic warning, Brom’s strange actions — it seemed like they couldn’t catch a break today.

 _The dragons’ knoll. Please hurry. They_ —

Askanir’s mental roar drowns out her voice. Roran cringed and covered his ears, though he knew it’ll do nothing to help his senses. _What’s happening?_

 _Traitors! Eggs shattered! Oaths broken!_ The dragon’s laments made no sense, but they were alarming nonetheless.

“Saphira just started screaming in my mind! What’s happening?” Eragon asked.

“I don’t know, but we better check on them,” Murtagh took the lead, veering away from the homebound path.

Though Roran was inclined to follow, he nevertheless attempts to keep a cool head. It’s difficult with the agitation his dragon is filling his mind with, but he tries. There’s no harm in that. “What if it’s a trap?”

“What trap?” Murtagh stopped to affix him with a _pointed_ stare. “You’re not suspecting Katrina, are you?”

Roran crossed his arms and huffed. “She’d _never_ conspire with Sloan — you know that.”

“I do. So what’s the problem?”

“We’re not getting anywhere with this argument,” Eragon pointed out with an exhausted sigh. “I’m worried about the dragons. Aren’t you, Roran?”

He’s right, Roran had to admit. He bowed his head reluctantly in defeat. “Very well. But we must leave at the first sign of danger.”

They veered to the dragons’ knoll, collectively fearing what awaited there. Every step carried the weight of urgency and the unspoken fear of what they might find there. Roran could still hear Askanir’s roars in his mind, the words drowned out by unbridled rage.

Leaves rustled over their heads as they made it to a clearing halfway to their destination. Great shadows blot out the trees as the _four_ dragons came into view, Luneria mounted by Katrina herself. Askanir landed right in front of his Rider with a loud huff. _We must leave. Now. Danger_.

 _Leave?_ Roran reaches out to pat his dragon’s head. _What danger do you speak of?_

_Oathbreakers. The worst of our kind. They will find us. They won’t stop until we are in their grasp._

_What oathbreakers? The Forsworn?_

_Things far worse than the human mind can conceive._ A shudder ran through the dragon’s body. _We must flee, Roran._

 _Flee?_ It was not an option for him. At least, not yet. _We can’t leave without my father!_

“They sensed something.” Katrina’s soft voice rang through the forest. “I know not what.”

The air seemed to change around them. Danger, dark and unmistakable, hung heavily around their soldiers. The winter cold transformed into an eerie chill as the sound of an explosion resonated from a distance.

“What was that?” Eragon yelped.

“By the lost kings, it came from the direction of our house.” Murtagh turned wildly to Roran, perhaps expecting _another_ challenge. “We have to go back.”

“We do.” They had no choice.

“Then I will come with you,” Katrina said. Her gentle yet firm words left no room for arguments. “Let the dragons help, too. They’re strong enough now.”

Roran sighed and opened his mind to Askanir once more instead. _You must take me home_.

 _No._ The vehemence in the dragon’s words seeped through his Rider’s bones. _It’s not safe._

 _My father is in there! We can’t just abandon him. He raised me_ — _without him, you would not be here with a Rider._

Askanir relented. _Very well. But I shall take no responsibility for the danger you shall be in_.

 _Good enough for me._ Roran mounted his dragon carefully, stumbling as he attempted to find good handholds. Eventually, he managed to settle down on the hollow space at the base of Askanir’s neck.

Eragon and Saphira joined him not long after. Murtagh, however, seemed embroiled in a quiet but heated argument with Thorn, their conversation blocked out to everyone else. To everyone’s relief, however, they eventually resolved their argument. With a small, exasperated sigh, Murtagh mounted his dragon.

They flew in the direction of the farm, the dragons staying low — close enough to go down through the trees at the slightest sign of danger. The trip ended quickly, however, and the dragons landed a few meters away from the road leading straight to the farm right as a resounding explosion filled the air.

“I’ll stay here with the dragons, you go ahead,” Katrina offered.

Roran needed no further prodding. He clambered off Askanir’s back, noting his chafed thighs. A few more minutes of flight and his skin would have been split open. Perhaps they needed a saddle — something to think about later, he quickly reminded himself.

Their home was now nothing but pieces of smoldering timber, blasted apart by an inhuman force. The nearby barn and silo were nothing but smoldering ruins, the animals dead unless they managed to flee. Amidst the churned, once-frozen fields stood three fearsome creatures — two with thick, twisted, leathery skin flanking a massive orange dragon.

Three people strode towards them. Two were the cloaked strangers from Carvahall, speaking incoherently in a strange, hissing tongue. Between them was a tall, silver-haired man with pointed ears — an elf who turned to the three Rider boys hiding amidst frosted bushes.

His gray eyes gleamed maliciously as a smirk fell across his face. He shifted, revealing that he was carrying someone — an unconscious _Garrow_. “If you want to find him, little Riders, then grow stronger and seek me. I shall be waiting.”

 _Roran!_ Askanir roared.

 _Stay where you are! Don’t reveal yourself! Keep Katrina safe_ —

With a sweep of his hand, the ground beneath the Riders’ feet churned and erupted, hurling them against nearby trees. Despite the pain lancing down his back, Roran quickly righted himself and grabbed a rock. He hurled it with as much force as he could though he immediately knew it was futile.

The projectile hit an invisible wall and dropped to the ground, three meters away from the elf’s amused face. He clenched his fists, and an invisible force locked Roran’s limbs, rendering him immobile. “Admirable effort, but ultimately _pointless_. Come find me when you have proven your strength.”

Nodding to his companions, the three of them reunited with their mounts. They took to the skies, quickly disappearing among the clouds. Silence briefly reigned as the strange spell binding the three boys faded.

Roran screamed his anger and fear into the nigh empty field.

The next few minutes — if not hours — were a blur. Roran’s mind had gone blank with rage and shock, even as the world went on around him. He was only vaguely aware of Katrina and the dragons joining the three boys, heading slowly towards the ruined house. They were discussing what to do next, but Roran was too addled with his emotions to listen and speak. Not even Askanir’s questions made sense to him.

* * *

He hadn’t even realized he lost consciousness sometime after the attack.

When he next regained his senses, he was lying on a pile of leaves next to a smoldering campfire, somewhere farther into the woods. Brom was hovering over him, pipe in hand, his silver-speckled beard glinting in the winter twilight.

“Welcome back,” he huffed, inching away to give the boy some space.

Roran sat up carefully, noting the fading pain in his back. He hadn’t even realized how _hurt_ he was during the attack. “What happened?”

“I found you _children_ after you passed out. Your dragon’s roars could’ve startled the wrong people.”

 _I was worried_ , Askanir argued.

“How are you feeling?” Katrina asked as she approached him. Eragon and Murtagh trailed not far behind him.

“Sore.” Roran groaned as he touched his head, expecting bruises but finding none.

Brom huffed again. “I’d hate to say it, but you were lucky that the Forsworn wanted something _from_ you. Otherwise you would be dead.”

“He was a Forsworn, then?”

“Judging from what your cousins told me, he can only be Enduriel the broken.” Brom pursed his lips briefly, as if wishing to speak more but thinking better of it. “I found you just as you collapsed.”

Eragon offered him a bowl of stew. “We salvaged what we could from the house — our bows and hunting daggers, and some of the meat and vegetables we still had left behind. We can forage for whatever we’ll need.”

Brom pursed his lips. “And where do you plan on going?”

“Find my father,” Roran said. There was no other choice. “We can’t just sit around and stay — not when the Forsworn know who and _where_ we are.”

The twins glanced at each other, but neither spoke up to argue with him. Even Murtagh seemed content with his answer.

Katrina takes his hand in hers with a smile. “I’ll come with you. I am a Rider in my own right too.”

“But your father,” Roran argued.

“What of him?” The warmth in her eyes vanished, replaced by cold, hard steel. “Eragon told me what happened in the village. He already betrayed you. If I stay, it won’t be long before Luneria is discovered too.”

Sloan. The mere thought of the despicable man nearly sent him retching in disgust. “Then you’re more than free to come with us, Katrina. It will be difficult, I wager —”

The anger in her eyes simmered as she smiled, baring her teeth. “Do not, for one second, think that I’m nothing but a _delicate flower_. I have considered the long and difficult days ahead of us. I will not falter, Roran. I am not afraid.”

 _I like her,_ Askanir noted.

 _So do I._ Roran bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Of course. If you have made up your mind then I will do nothing to dissuade you.”

Murtagh turned to Brom with a suspicious glint in his eyes. “But you never did tell us — why are you here?”

“I was halfway back to my house when worry gripped me,” the storyteller explained. “Something _felt_ wrong. I headed back to the woods to seek you boys out, but I couldn’t find you. The paths here are unfamiliar. It was only by twist of fate that I heard the explosion and followed its direction. And now, if it suits you, I would like to accompany you on your journey.”

“Accompany us?” Murtagh raised a brow.

Brom’s gaze shifted to the four dragons, huddled together at the edge of their makeshift camp. Their warmth kept the icy winter at bay. “It’s been a century since the last Dragon Riders soared to the sky. The storyteller in me wishes to see you weave your own legends, so I may tell the tales. Besides, I may be one of the last people in the Empire who know a little about dragon lore. My knowledge might help you in your quest.”

 _Can we trust him?_ Katrina asked.

Murtagh frowned. _I don’t think he bears any ill will_.

 _He’s been nothing but helpful to us,_ Eragon mused. _Perhaps it won’t hurt._

The four turned to Brom. Roran nods, ever so subtly. “Your help is most welcome. But do be careful not to betray us. Otherwise —”

Askanir roared.

Brom smiled toothily. “Thank you.”

“How do we start?”

“We rest for tonight. Tomorrow, we plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relatively short, but the plot must move. We'll be catching up with Arya and Nasuada soon.


End file.
